


The Educational Friends

by godbewithyouihavedone



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Academic Citations, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted giant Grantaire speeches, Food, M/M, Philosophy, Social Justice, Student Organizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godbewithyouihavedone/pseuds/godbewithyouihavedone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underneath is a veritable call to arms involving ICE CREAM!!!!!!!! and SPRINKLES SHIT YEAH!!!!!<br/>“That’s probably Grantaire,” Bahorel says.<br/>“The guy who stole our cupcakes?” Courfeyrac asks.<br/>“We gave of them freely,” Jehan says. “I like his suggestion.  Sprinkles are inhumanly underappreciated by the millennial generation.”<br/>“This isn’t relevant,” Enjolras says.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Grantaire runs a food blog where he rates campus event offerings, so he keeps showing up to their social justice club.  Enjolras doesn’t want to learn to tolerate him.  The universe has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Educational Friends

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my attempt at characterizing Grantaire, and E/R, as close to the novel as possible in a modern AU (ie Grantaire isn't handsome and doesn't have a full system of belief to oppose Enjolras). A lot of this is based on my experience with student leadership, although thankfully that's been without some of the mistakes made here.
> 
> And before you ask: yes, food is that important in college event organization. True facts.

The Educational Friends is their university’s vaguely-named social justice club. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac inherited it from a bunch of political science majors. The former leaders used it to pad their resumes and schmooze with local activist talent. The trio endured two semesters of presenters mumbling in meetings and discussions that turned into “the white liberal circle jerk horror show” (Courfeyrac, 2012). Thankfully, that group all graduated, leaving only the trio and their more zealous friends.

Subsequent elections created a tremendous overhaul. They began talking less about networking and more about capitalist violence. Now, the new crop of freshmen attending their introductory meetings appears a bit afraid and a bit interested. Enjolras couldn’t be smiling any wider.

“So we’ll be meeting every Thursday, after night classes let out. We welcome your input. There’s a website for anonymous suggestions on meeting topics, in case something hits a little close to home. We want you to feel safe, particularly in issues of gender and sexuality.”

“Make sure to follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. And sign up for e-mail lists, and also maybe get a tattoo on your arm of our logo,” Courfeyrac says. “I worked on it for like a week, guys. It is a sweet-ass logo.”

“Does anyone want to take home the extra food?” Combeferre asks.

The unwashed, bulky guy in the back who was on his phone the whole time immediately raises his hand. He elbows his way to the front of the gathered students to collect five rainbow cupcakes, their icing slightly dented from transportation. He manages to hold them all in his palms. Then the guy wanders off as a balding sociology major runs up to the group and begins talking about the construction of race.

Enjolras is glad the core members don’t have to pretend at not having space in their dorms until someone gets guilty enough to drag the rest of the food home and pig out on it.

]A few days later, they informally gather for a leader meeting at the local sushi place. Combeferre scouted it in his first week of undergrad, and it's become beloved by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bahorel in turn. Courfeyrac reports the turnout, the number of followers they have on social media and sign-ups for the email lists. He passes around a print-out of the anonymous suggestions they’ve received.

First, there’s a shy plea for discussing religious households and bisexuality. An enthusiastic, not-super-anonymous theory of race, this time focusing on non-Western ideologies, follows. Underneath is a veritable call to arms involving ICE CREAM!!!!!!!! and SPRINKLES SHIT YEAH!!!!!

“That’s probably Grantaire,” Bahorel says. 

“The guy who stole our cupcakes?” Courfeyrac asks.

“We gave of them freely,” Jehan says. “I like his suggestion. Sprinkles are inhumanly underappreciated by the millennial generation.”

“This isn’t relevant,” Enjolras says. 

“Ensuring attendance is always relevant,” Courfeyrac says. “But he probably could have found a better method of contacting us, yeah.”

The next time, they have Neapolitan ice cream and little star sprinkles while they discuss race. The sociology major is Bossuet. He dragged his definitely-BFF, kind-of-boyfriend Joly with him this time. Combeferre and Joly know each other from pre-med. Grantaire keeps texting someone. Enjolras swears he takes a selfie in the middle of their discussion on the commoditization of nonwhite women’s bodies.

“Let’s talk to Grantaire,” he says, the next meeting.

Combeferre dabs his eel into a sauce and makes a displeased noise.

“I already did,” Courfeyrac says. “He didn’t think he was distracting anyone, and he sounded sorry.”

“He’s a good dude,” Bahorel says. “He punched me in the stomach like twice at a bar last year. He’s a good dude.”

The next meeting, Grantaire devours half their chips and spinach dip. He doesn’t take his phone out once. He watches the clock on the wall. At the end, Enjolras blocks him from leaving. “We’re going over modern issues in gender next meeting,” he says. “Maybe you could think about questions?”

“That sounds like a class,” Grantaire says. His voice is somehow raspy and grating at the same time. “You’re Combeferre, right?”

Enjolras blinks. He’s introduced himself to the entire group three times already. “Uh, no, Enjolras.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Then you’re the president.”

“Officially, but our new rules include a much more egalitarian leadership structure,” Enjolras says.

But Grantaire’s already interrupting him. “Then why are you talking to me?”

Enjolras doesn’t have an answer.

He doesn’t say anything when Enjolras asks for questions at the next meeting. In fact, he goes out of his way to look at his lap, where he’s doodling on his napkin, which had previously supported seven cookies. A few meetings later, before they start, Enjolras overhears him telling Bossuet and Joly “I’m just here for the food.”

Which is, frankly, bizarre.

Most of his kind-of friends from high school wouldn’t be caught dead at a club like this, discussing serious issues of inequality and injustice. Grantaire treats it like he’s teaching accounting. He seems nice enough, but Enjolras starts to notice that some people make faces when he’s mentioned. Courfeyrac tries to talk about Grantaire’s boxing skills to Bahorel, and meets blunt commentary from a girl near them. “He tried to take me home at a party. As if, oh my god. He’s like the singularity of asshole.” (Boissy, 2014)

Enjolras believes in giving everyone a chance. And even if Grantaire isn’t listening half the time, he must still be picking up something worthwhile. Other than those jelly donuts they had that one time.

Then he meets him outside of a meeting.

They’re at their weekly sushi gathering, ordering up, when Grantaire drops by. He’s wearing a hoodie with disconcerting black splotches on it, and using chopsticks to tie his hair in a messy bun. “You dudes are here too?” he asks, scooting next to Courfeyrac on the bench at the bar. “I’m totally getting stood up for a date, this is fantastic. They have the best cheap-ass wine here, it was my backup anyway. What are you all serious about?”

“Reparation legislation,” Enjolras says.

“You mean, we’ll pay you cause we fucked over your ancestors stuff? Oh, that’s such complete bullshit. It’s never gonna work. I can’t believe people still campaign for it, you know that it’ll be barely any money if it ever does happen. Then politicians will be all ‘Racism is over! We stopped it!’ and try to break down anti-discrimination legislation. Like a few thousand bucks a person is going to fix anything.”

Combeferre opens his mouth, probably with a rebuttal, but Grantaire isn’t finished.

“I mean, plenty of people are riled up about Affirmative Action, and that’s just college. God knows the US doesn’t care about college given the state of student loan debt. I know. We should totally pay poor minority student loans. Sorry for hanging and killing you guys, our bad, here’s a shitty bachelor’s degree and everyone’s gonna think you only got it due to the color of your skin. Hope you’re not Asian, we never did anything bad in Asia since you all get good grades.”

“I get awful grades,” Bahorel says. “I was in pre-law for a year and a half. Then I dropped the program because the teacher tried to call roll and I was afraid she’d know I was the one who kept turning in question marks instead of papers.”

Grantaire points finger guns at him. “Also, racism isn’t just in the social flibbergibbit or the legalistic vag but it’s in our heads, man, you can remind a black guy he’s black and he’ll do worse on a test. How do you fix that with money? It’s just another capitalistic packaging of life experiences. Oh, that was a good one. I almost sounded like I had an opinion there. I deserve a shot for that.”

“We’re trying to have a student org meeting for The Educational Friends,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire’s mouth drops open, but blessedly, no more words come out. He curls his hand around his tumbler, his shoulders hunching and eyes going bitter.

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—whatever, you don’t care what I think anyway. I’m not a progressive or a Democrat or an anarchist. I promise I won’t say anything when you get up and extol the virtues of paying off our problems. Back to my lonesome table to wait for the person I’m dating this week.”

After he slinks away, silence still lingers.

“I’m changing my IM name to Legalistic Vag,” Courfeyrac says. “That’s just beautiful.”

“The varied definitions of the word beautiful are the most accurate expression of the concept itself,” Jehan says. “We could include a counter-argument section. It’s possible that anonymous comment box websites aren’t the only form of inclusion we can practice.”

“Why does he go to our meetings anyway?” Enjolras asks, low enough so that Grantaire can’t hear it.

“You don’t know?” Bahorel asks.

Enjolras looks around. Combeferre sighs. “I always forget you don’t participate in anything other than The Educational Friends.”

“I’m taking 18 hours of coursework and I do, I volunteer for that petition organization online—”

“At the school, man,” Bahorel says. He’s in charge of PR, chosen because he joined a million clubs freshman year and never bothered to cull them. “Grantaire goes to like, every meeting that has free food. It’s his hobby. I don’t judge.”

“He showed up at the Pre-Med taco night,” Combeferre says. “And Marius—”

“Wait, who’s Marius?” Jehan asks.

“The one that looks like he’s 12,” Courfeyrac says. “He’s my roommate. Yeah, he said that Grantaire was at the Pre-Law fish bake.”

“Grantaire is actually pre-law, though,” Bahorel says. “Anyway, he has like, a blog about it. He reviews the food different student orgs have. It’s super helpful.”

“No wonder no one told me,” Enjolras says. “I don’t want to judge, but…”

Courfeyrac stops him there, by holding up a finger and then, with Enjolras distracted, he shoves a piece of sushi in his mouth. “He shows up to the meetings. And he was respectful when we asked him to be. Remember freshman year? We had our token Conservative Christian. He tried to bring up moral decay and religious freedom every single meeting.”

“Of course I remember him, you had really loud sex with him in our dorm for like a month,” Enjolras says.

“There is a reason I have a freshman roommate,” Courfeyrac says. “They’re known to be gullible and complacent.”

Grantaire keeps showing up. Everyone seems to like him more and more. He does fencing and boxing and tennis and art and hip-hop dance, but only for meetings in which there is food afterward. He shows up with CYNIC written backwards on his forehead one day and Enjolras opens his mouth. Jehan adds a little flower to the top of each C. 

Enjolras is heading to the dorms from the library one night when he sees Grantaire laughing. A bunch of frat brothers cluster around him on a bench. He’s drawing for them, something that looks like a comic strip.

When he sees Enjolras, he waves, and all the bros look confused.

“What’s your room number?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras walks on. He doesn’t want to be mocked. The smiles they’re wearing aren’t quite restrained enough to be sober. He almost feels like he doesn’t need to come out since he doesn’t have the time or energy to date anyone anyway. But there’s still part of him that’s endlessly trudging to school in the morning to peel little post-it notes of stick figures committing sodomy off his locker.

He’s fighting for people like Grantaire. For those who are unseeing and for those who are callous, because they deserve to live in a better world just as much as all his friends. But he wishes someone as smart and charismatic as Grantaire clearly is felt the same. Or at least, if he didn’t, he wishes the guy would be polite enough to get out of his hair.

“You’re getting the food next time, right?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Sure thing, it’ll be so much better than the shit you losers usually have,” Grantaire says.

The next meeting he shows up without anything and without even remembering. Then the next meeting he’s useless. Jehan brings brownies and everyone knows not to touch them, except Bahorel who risks it anyway.

Grantaire eats ten and ends up standing in the corner, leaning his head against the wall and zoning out. “Witness our magnificent Stoned Zombie installation, it represents the apathy of humankind in the face of violence.” (Combeferre, 2014) For another perspective, “Haha, I’m so hungry.” (Grantaire, 2014)

“Hey, I think that dude is checking you out,” Courfeyrac says. “Which is pretty impressive. You look like you’re trying to murder your laptop via telepathic pyromancy.”

Enjolras looks up, and then frowns. They’re at a bar. He needed Courfeyrac’s help and so he went to where Courfeyrac was, a.k.a. a bar. Then they stayed for mozzarella sticks, and Enjolras’s usual “snobby pomegranate lemonade with the tiniest bit of vodka for only the tiniest bit of fun” (Bahorel, 2013).

“Wait, sorry, that’s Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. When Enjolras turns, he makes the same type of face a kitten does after it rips up your carpet. “Just messing. You seemed inter-est-ed in looking, though.”

Enjolras runs a hand through his curls. “Spare me your singsong.”

“He talks about you like you’re the Second Coming, you know,” Courfeyrac says. “I mean, it starts off as making fun. But it devolves into comparing you to various deities and thinly-disguised envy. I think he’s just impressed you can be so focused. Or his body is so impressed you can be so—”

“People have crushes on me. It happens.”

Courfeyrac nods. “He is kinda not so blessed in the face department. And I always imagined you shacking up with the personification of liberation. You never responded during that game of Truth or Dare when I asked you if you touch yourself to Karl Marx.”

“You can’t be trying to goad me into ‘diversifying my interests’,” Enjolras says. Twenty years of bitterness at his parents thicken his voice. “I don’t need to be in love to be happy. And as much as I love all of you, the work comes first. Grantaire’s not even really a member.”

“His registration for the email list states otherwise,” Courfeyrac says. “Still avoiding the Marxturbation question, I see.”

As much as it’s at his expense, it’s such a good pun Enjolras can’t help sniggering.

Grantaire having a crush on him doesn't change anything. Anyway, it's in serious question. Courfeyrac would likely attempt to set up a smelly boot and a sock drawer if he thought the denouement would be dramatic enough. Enjolras can put up with his friends wanting to talk about classes and parties and relationships all the time. He can deal with people liking him. A bunch of girls had crushes on him in high school, and he endured. He went to a party with Bahorel and Jehan and got hit on by a drunk straight couple, and he endured.

Grantaire is no different. Or at least, he shouldn’t be. Watching him inhale beef jerky and Sprite at the next meeting should not be distracting. Because he isn’t on his phone, he isn’t on marijuana, and he certainly doesn’t have anything to say.

Out of horrid curiosity, Enjolras looks up his blog. It’s entitled Eat, You, Out: R’s Guide To Affordable College Cuisine. It’s…surprisingly detailed. There are pictures, and rough per-person food estimates, and quality metrics, and overall event analysis. Everything is tagged and sorted based on type of food and on organization.

It’s also surprisingly hilarious. Woven in the review are subtle digs at the different venues. The Fencing Club serves “croissants, fresh as its practitioners after a plethora of matches”. The Student Senate spread is “tyrannically biased toward trust-fund baby cuisine that isn’t as luxe as it might like to dream it is. Any hork d'oeuvres must be wrapped in either cheese or meat to be worth eating. All in all, it provides the same experience as its hosts. A veneer of respectability and jurisdiction covers the unripe fruit of self-important coeds.”

The Educational Friends is nowhere on the blog.

Well, there is a post earlier in the year, about possible organizations to scout, in which they’re mentioned. But none of the meeting provisions, cupcakes or ice cream or pot brownies, are included.

Marius comes up to Enjolras and Combeferre at the end of their next meeting. “I’m worried about Grantaire,” he says. “He goes to a lot of stuff? For no reason? And in class we’ve been studying food deserts, and I got worried that maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he does this because he doesn’t have enough to eat.”

“That’s…good of you, Marius,” Combeferre says. “But Grantaire is doing fine financially, and certainly has the means to purchase food for himself. He has a full meal plan, and he often buys Joly and Bossuet lunch.”

“Oh, sorry,” Marius says.

After he leaves, Combeferre cocks his head. “Mostly Bossuet, since he couldn’t hang onto his ID card if he stapled it to his palm. You know, we should do a meeting about food deserts and chronic malnutrition. Walk back with me?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says. He likes the cold night air, the intimacy of walking alone with only the lights from buildings to guide them. He still is thankful to whatever deity guided him to Combeferre during his first semester. Even if it’s only the spirit of liberty.

Combeferre and Enjolras were closer before they started running the club together. The Educational Friends is Enjolras’s life, true. But previously Combeferre never made it a point to counterbalance everything he said. Or to try to convince him that his prejudices inhibit his leadership style. He appreciates it, immensely. And to be honest, he wouldn’t take Combeferre the friend back from Combeferre the guide. But they didn’t used to have this weight on their shoulders, pulling them apart.

“You’re getting contemplative again,” Combeferre says. “I approve.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I think I’m lonely.”

“You don’t seem lonely to me,” Combeferre says. “Unhappy, perhaps. But not lonely. Everyone makes fun of it, but you look relaxed and content when they mess around before a meeting, or when we go to parties. Like it’s enough that your friends can enjoy themselves, and that gives you hope too.”

“But unhappy,” Enjolras says.

“College students have many factors of stress and are still growing into adulthood,” Combeferre says. “Here, listen to yourself when I say this. You’re going to change the world. Do you believe that?”

Enjolras nods.

“You can’t be lonely when you have everyone under your care,” Combeferre says. “When you go out of your way to remember who fights with you. I think if you’re anything, you’re unfulfilled. It takes a long time to affect real progress, Enjolras. It takes a lot of love. Keep collecting different specimens of your own heart, and keep reminding yourself to be kind.”

They’ve circled part of the campus now, past the dorm, just talking. Combeferre is completely stellar, as human beings go. He might be overly harsh on some opinions, such as “Ronald Reagan was the greatest man of his time.” (Pontmercy, 2014) But he makes his incisions with the eternal goal of healing. Enjolras knows Combeferre sees more in people than he will ever see. He understands the world in individual lives with pinpoint clarity.

“I wonder how Grantaire can help the group,” Enjolras says.

Combeferre smiles. They’ve reached the dorm. “Perhaps try asking him.”

They don’t have food at the next meeting. Grantaire comes anyway, half-drunk and making kissy faces at Joly. Enjolras thinks he's discussing someone he and Bossuet are trying to date. The next one, Enjolras makes lasagna. He knows he’s not the best chef. But when three-fourths of it sits uneaten and Grantaire doesn’t even bother asking to take it back with him, that’s a low blow.

Next week, Grantaire is back again. So either it can’t be the food, or he’s more of an optimist than he claims.

When one of his professors invites him to a departmental meeting, Enjolras has a difficult time saying no. That professor is friends with another professor who officially sponsors The Educational Friends. As much as he hates “networking”, it could prove advantageous to his group later on. There are few things he wouldn’t do to ensure the continued acceptance and awareness of The Educational Friends.

There’s pizza, and with the pizza arrives Grantaire.

“This is for philosophy majors,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire pauses, half a slice of pepperoni currently in his mouth. When he swallows, he says, “I know. I am one.”

“Are you double majoring to eat more food?” Enjolras wants to ask him. Desperately desires. Considers heavily.

They sit down together, because Enjolras knows no one else here. The faculty explain all the course offerings for next year. Grantaire draws a tiny Rene Descartes on the corner of Enjolras’s page of notes.

Enjolras doesn’t know why people keep saying Grantaire is ugly. He isn’t a supermodel or even a cute guy, but he wouldn’t look like Grantaire without the broken nose, the popped blood vessels in his cheeks from drinking. He wouldn’t have the same essence if he smelled like anything other than fake cheese and sweat. It’d be like asking Bahorel to be dainty.

“Don’t stare at me,” Grantaire whispers.

“Don’t draw on my notebook,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire stops.

That wasn’t what he wanted at all. He doesn’t even realize it until he no longer has Grantaire’s elbow halfway in his neck. Until the chicken-scratch sounds of pencil on paper on cheap fake wood lecture desks cease.

He had a mantra that took him through high school. “I’m going to grow up and go to college and start talking to people that care about what I say and not be sorry about what I look like or what you think I am.”

It hadn’t included, “And then I’m going to blush because Courfeyrac said a boy who only hangs out with me because I’m in the vicinity of food liked me and he’s sitting super close and then second-guess myself and miss the second half of information about next term’s philosophy classes.”

“So which ones are you signing up for?” he asks, trying not to make it sound like a yelp.

“I dunno, probably the Marx one and the Intro to Ethics. Marx, man. Love that guy.”

“We were going to go over Marx two weeks from now in The Educational Friends,” Enjolras says.

“Let me guess, as a solution to the world’s problems?” Grantaire asks, but then he must see something in Enjolras’s expression, because he grasps his hand. “Alright, I got this. I can help.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I can help, isn’t that what you want?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “Thank you, I mean it.”

When Enjolras tells him, Courfeyrac looks like he said he’s entered the dimension of perpetual Christmas. “Oh my god, he doesn’t even know about the Marx sex stuff.”

“There is no Marx sex stuff,” Enjolras says.

Jehan, hanging upside-down on the sofa in the student union, pipes up. “Marx had seven children.”

Courfeyrac nods. “It’s the beard, Mrs. Marx went all weak in the knees for the beard.”

“Combeferre said he was growing a beard,” Jehan says. “He’s hoping to pick up Mrs. Marx.”

Finally, the harrowing arrives. Grantaire stands before the club. Twelve slides of PowerPoint behind him and two pages of notes are in front of him. He looks marginally cleaner in a white shirt and pressed jeans, instead of his usual dirty band tee and yoga pants combo.

“Be easy,” he tells Enjolras, then, “Not that way. I mean. It’s cool. I got this.”

Enjolras touches his shoulder, nods, and then sits down.

“Karl Marx,” Grantaire says. “You all probably have a bunch of opinions when I say that name. But people don’t tend to fully understand his theories, or the differences between Marxism and its historical applications. So here I am, to show you why the end of history is arriving. Apparently, the exploited are about to rise like an inconvenient boner, and economic justice can only come from the overthrow of the capitalist class. And I'll finish with what you can do to help.”

He pauses. He clicks the slide. His hands are shaking.

“Marx saw the rising industrialist—the conditions, they were, well first, Adam Smith, but Marx saw…oh god.”

He throws his notes up, and they rain back down on his head. “I’m not going to sing and dance and pretend Marxism is relevant anymore,” he says. He looks directly at Enjolras. “Because I don’t think that. And I don’t want to lie to you. Someone just…get up here, and we’ll go over the slides, impress all you, but that’s not. You can’t have grand theories and expect anything. People died under regimes twisting his words. Like with capitalism, they died. They’ll keep dying. It doesn’t matter who has the power. It’ll never be us all. Not…”

Everyone stares, as if Grantaire is a human train-wreck, about to go completely off the rails.

“Who wants to play dominoes?” he yells, and then dives for his backpack. He takes out a worn set of dominoes, and spreads them on the table at the center of their room, and waves frantically for them to join him. “We’ve got soda, we’ve got whatever the hell Marius brought, let’s have some fun.”

Surprisingly enough, they actually play dominoes. Feuilly, the self-educated cafeteria worker they keep sneaking in even though they’re not supposed to have these meetings open to the public, kicks ass. Bossuet manages to lose one, and so they hunt for it. It’s a lot of fun, and if Enjolras could forget about what it was supposed to be, maybe he’d be happy.

At the end of the meeting, Grantaire leaves before anyone can talk to him. “What’s his room number?” Enjolras asks Joly.

“You wouldn’t give him yours,” Joly says. “Whatever, it’s 229.”

Grantaire’s door is open. He’s curled up in the corner of his bed, still wearing his ironed jeans and with his shined shoes resting on his comforter. When Enjolras enters the room, he twitches, as if to flee. Enjolras sits down at the desk, and watches him.

“I fucked up,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “You should’ve asked for help.”

“Oh god, I’m not talking to you.”

“What good will that do?” Enjolras asks. “I made a mistake, I put you in a bad situation, and I’m sorry.”

“What, for trusting me?”

Grantaire bites his lip. Suddenly, all Enjolras wants to do is hug him. Well, he wants more. He wants to teach him how to see the sunrise, to work toward progress, to fully join the group. He wants to teach Grantaire how to hold his hand and how to touch his hair until he purrs. But that’s not who either of them are.

“I know I’m useless. I wanted to hide it, and at the same time, I think I wanted you to see.”

“I don’t think that,” Enjolras says.

“Okay, I’ll pretend with you.” Grantaire takes a deep, shaky breath, and then another. “I don’t need to go back. I can, I mean, I know you probably think it’s stupid, you definitely do, but my blog. People pay attention. And I knew you wouldn’t like it if I reviewed your group’s food and said it was the best. It is, which has nothing to do with you being my friend, or whatever, I don’t think we’re friends. But I. Anyway I can do that, if you want, and a dozen more people will show up to the meetings. And you can tell them fairy tales and make them into little zealots for your cause. They’ll be better people than I ever could be. So I wouldn’t have to see you again.”

“You are my friend,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire shakes his head. “Just leave if you’re not even going to give me an answer.”

Grantaire doesn’t come to their next meeting. Twenty other people do in his stead. Enjolras is happy to tell them about sexual violence on college campuses. He whips them into a frenzy, sends them back with pamphlets and the number of their senators and a call to justice in their hearts.

But he still waits around after the meeting is over for Grantaire to come back. He brought extra cookies, just in case.

At their next get-together, they go to Feuilly’s house to see his commemorative shot glass collection. Grantaire shows up halfway through, lingers in the doorway, then slumps. He sits next to Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta (their girlfriend, she of the kissy faces).

Enjolras doesn’t want to only look at him, but it’s not really a choice.

As everyone talks, Grantaire leaves to find the bathroom. Enjolras stands up. Combeferre gives him a Look. Courfeyrac gives him another Look, of much different implications.

He waits for Grantaire outside the bathroom for what feels like ten minutes. Finally, Grantaire emerges, smelling like fake cheese and the artisan soap Feuilly hand-makes. He looks miserable.

“You should come back to the meetings,” Enjolras says. “There are a lot of new people with wonderful ideas, thanks to you. We’ve had five submissions to the comment box already, and we’re planning on doing a mini sandwich bar.”

“Oh, jeez, a mini sandwich bar, that’ll solve everything,” Grantaire says.

“I think you want to make a difference,” Enjolras says. “And you’re scared. But we all are.”

“What is it with you and not figuring out my inscrutable mystery?” Grantaire asks.

“Or maybe you like me, I don’t care, but you’re our friend, really, and I won’t ever make you do a presentation again. Just please come back—”

“I would walk through fire for you,” Grantaire says. “I would handcuff myself to the White House, and march through the streets, and sit in jail on a hunger strike like an ugly-ass modern-day Gahndi. But I won’t think the world can get better, because I can’t rearrange my brain. I’ve tried. So no.”

Enjolras looks at him, truly, for the first time, in the awful cheap hallway light. There are bags under his eyes, acne on his nose, and beer sours his breath. There are no illusions in his eyes.

It’s one thing to champion the masses, and another thing to have a stocky man with greasy hair look at him like that. He’s never allowed it, but that was foolishness as much as Grantaire never allowing himself to succeed. And if Grantaire can get up and try to teach the group about Karl Marx, Enjolras can try to be his. There’s risk, and the deck’s stacked against him. But it’s the same way with social progress, and that’s never stopped him before.

“You would walk through fire for me,” Enjolras says, and he reaches out, slow as he can, to wrap his arms around him.

Grantaire is trembling, just barely, but enough that Enjolras can feel it. His heart is beating to the rhythm of Grantaire shaking in his arms. This isn’t what love is supposed to be like, or maybe, by being not what love is supposed to be like, it’s exactly what love is.

“We should go on a date,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire clings to him tighter. “Please don’t be fucking with me, I swear to god—”

“It’ll be a time that we set, and a specific place, to go do something. That’s an event. We’ll go get sushi, or, um, I don’t know any other restaurants? We’ll go get sushi. I can pay. You can review it for your blog, the free food from dating Enjolras.”

“You can’t My Fair Lady me into an activist,” Grantaire says.

“I know.”

“I get depressed and I go to the counselor about drinking issues.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not good at anything—”

“Shut up and hold my hand when we go back to see our friends,” Enjolras says.

“I’m no good at shutting up, I’m ruining this already,” Grantaire says, but he intertwines their fingers.

**Bibliography**

Courfeyrac. (2012, October 10). Student. (Bahorel, Interviewer)  
Boissy, Irma. (2014, February 7.) Student. (Magnon, Interviewer)  
Combeferre. (2014, February 23.) Student. (Courfeyrac, Interviewer)  
Grantaire. (2014, February 23.) Student. (Combeferre, Interviewer)  
Bahorel. (2013, June 15.) Student. (Enjolras, Interviewer)  
Pontmercy, Marius. (2014, January 18.) Student. (Combeferre, Interviewer)


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